Bull Hunter

  CHAPTER 7

  The prisoner's good humor impressed Bull immensely. Here was a mantalking commonplaces in the face of death. A greater man than UncleBill, he felt at once--a far greater man. It was impossible toconceive of that keen, sharp eye and that clawlike hand sending abullet far from the center of the target.

  He gave his eyes long sight of that face, and then turned from thebars and went out with the sheriff.

  "Is that your man?" asked the sheriff.

  "I dunno," said Bull, fencing for time as they stood in front of thejail. "What'd he do?"

  "You mean why he's in jail? I'll tell you that, son, but first I wantto know what you got agin' him--and your proofs--mostly your proofs!"

  The distaste which Bull had felt for the sheriff from the first nowbecame overpowering. That he should be the means of bringing thatterrible and active little man to an end seemed, as a matter of fact,absurd. Guile must have played a part in that capture.

  Suppose he were to tell the sheriff about the shooting of Uncle Bill?That would be enough to convince men that Pete Reeve was capable ofmurder, for the shooting of Uncle Bill had been worse than murder. Itspared the life and ruined it at the same time. But suppose he addedhis evidence and allowed the law to take its course with Pete Reeve?Where would be his own reward for his long march south and all thepain of travel and the crossing of the mountains at the peril of hislife? There would be nothing but scorn from Uncle Bill when hereturned, and not that moment of praise for which he yearned. To gainthat great end he must kill Pete Reeve, but not by the aid of the law.

  "I dunno," he said to the sheriff who waited impatiently. "I figurethat what I know wouldn't be no good to you."

  The sheriff snorted. "You been letting me waste all this time on you?"he asked Bull. "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"

  Bull scratched his head in perplexity. But as he raised the great armand put his hand behind his head, the sheriff winced back a little."I'm sorry," said Bull.

  The sheriff dismissed him with a grunt of disgust, and strode off.

  Bull started out to find information. This idea was growing slowly inhis mind. He must kill Pete Reeve, and to accomplish that great end hemust first free him from the jail. He went back to the hotel and wentinto the kitchen to find food. The proprietor himself came back toserve him. He was a pudgy little man with a dignified pointed beard ofwhich he was inordinately proud.

  "It's between times for meals," he declared, "but you being thebiggest man that ever come into the hotel, I'll make an exception."And he began to hunt through the cupboard for cold meat.

  "I seen Pete Reeve," began Bull bluntly. "How come he's in jail?"

  "Him?" asked the other. "Ain't you heard?"

  "No."

  The little man sighed with pleasure; he had given up hope of finding anew listener for that oft-told tale. "It happened last night," heconfided. "Along late in the afternoon in rides Johnny Strange. Hetells us he was out to Dan Armstrong's place when, about noon, alittle gray-headed man that give the name of Pete Reeve came in andasked for chow. Of course Johnny Strange pricks up his ears when hehears the name. We all heard about Pete Reeve, off and on, as aboutthe slickest gunman that the ranges ever turned out. So he looks Peteover and wonders at finding such a little man."

  The proprietor drew himself up to his full height. "He didn't knowthat size don't make the man! Well, Armstrong trotted out some chuckfor Reeve, and after Pete had eaten, Johnny Strange suggested a game.They sat in at three-handed stud poker.

  "Things went along pretty good for Johnny. He made a considerablewinning. Then it come late in the afternoon, and he seen he'd have tobe getting back home. He offered to bet everything he'd won, or doubleor nothing, and when the boys didn't want to do that, it give him aclean hand to stand up and get out. He got up and said good-bye andhung around a while to see how the next hands went. So far as he couldmake out, Pete Reeve was losing pretty steady. Then he come on in.

  "Well, when Johnny Strange told about Pete being out there, SheriffAnderson was in the room and he rises up.

  "'Don't look good to me,' he says. 'If a gunfighter is losing money,most like he'll fight to win it back. Maybe I'll go out and look thatgame over.'

  "And saying that he slopes out of the room.

  "Well, none of us took much stock in the sheriff going out to takecare of Armstrong. You see Armstrong was the old sheriff, and he giveAnderson a pretty stiff run for his money last election. They bothbeen spending most of their time and energy the last few years hatingeach other. When one of 'em is in office the other goes around sayingthat the gent that has the plum is a crook; and then Anderson goesout, and Armstrong comes in, and Anderson says the same thing aboutArmstrong. Take 'em general and they always had the boys worried whenthey was together, for fear of a gunfight and bullets flying. And so,when Anderson stands up and says he's going out to see that Reevedon't do no harm to Armstrong, we all sat back and kind of laughed.

  "But we laughed at the wrong thing. Long about an hour or so afterdark we hear two men come walking up on the veranda, and one of 'em weknowed by the sound was the sheriff."

  "How could you tell by the sound?" asked Bull innocently.

  "Well, you see the sheriff always wears steel rims on his heels likehe was a horse. He's kind of close with his money is old Anderson,I'll tell a man! We hear the ring of them heels on the porch, andpretty soon in comes the sheriff, herding a gent in ahead of him. Andwho d'you think that gent was? It was Reeve! Yes, sir, the old sheriffhad stepped out and grabbed his man. He wasn't there quick enough tostop the killing of Armstrong, but he got there fast enough to nabReeve. Seems that when he was riding up to the house he heard a shotfired, and then he seen a man run out of the house and jump on hishoss, and the sheriff didn't stop to ask no questions. He just outwith his gat and drills the gent's hoss. And while Reeve wasstruggling on the ground, with the hoss flopping around and dying, thesheriff runs up and sticks the irons on Reeve. Then he goes into thehouse and finds Armstrong lying shot through the heart. Clear as day!Reeve loses a lot of money, and when it comes to a pinch he hates tosee that money gone when he could get it back for the price of oneslug. So he outs with his gun and shoots Armstrong. And the worst partof it was that Armstrong didn't have no gun on at the time. Thesheriff found Armstrong's gun hanging on the wall along with hiscartridge belt. Yep, it was plain murder, and Pete Reeve'll hang ashigh as the sky--and a good thing, too!"

  This story was a shock to Bull for a reason that would not haveaffected most men. That a man who had had the courage to stand up andface Uncle Bill in a fair duel should have been so cowardly, sovenomous as to take a mean advantage of a gambling companion seemed toBull altogether too strange to be reasonable. Certainly, if he had hada difference with this fellow, thought Bull, Pete Reeve was the man tolet the other use his own weapons before he fought. But to shoot himdown across a table, unwarned--this was too much to believe! And yetit was the truth, and Pete Reeve was to hang for it.

  The big man sat shaking his head. "And they found the money on PeteReeve?" he asked gloomily. "They found the money he took off thisArmstrong?"

  "There's the funny part of the yarn," said the proprietor glibly."Pete had the nerve to shoot the gent down in cold blood, but when heseen him fall he lost his nerve. He didn't wait to grab the money, butran out and jumped on his hoss and tried to get away. So there youare. But it pretty often happens that way! Take the oldest gunfighterin the world, and, if his stomach ain't resting just right, it sort ofupsets him to see a crimson stain. I seen it happen that way with theworst of 'em, and in the old days they used to be a rough crowd in mybarroom. They don't turn out that style of gent no more!" He sighed ashis mind flickered back into the heroic past.

  "And Reeve--he admits he done the killing?" Bull asked hopelessly.

  "Him? Nope, he's too foxy for that. But the only story he told was sofoolish that we laughed at him, and he ain't had the nerve to try tobluff us ever since. He says that he was sitting peaceable wi
thArmstrong when all at once without no warning they was a shot from thewindow--the east window, I remember he was particular to say--andArmstrong dropped forward on the table, shot through the heart.

  "Reeve says that he didn't wait to ask no questions. He blew thecandle out, and having got the darkness on his side, he made a jumpthrough the door and got onto his hoss. He says that he wanted tobreak away to the trees and try to get a shot at the murderer fromcover, but the minute he got onto his hoss, he had his hoss shot fromunder him."

  "Was they any shots fired then?"

  "Yep. Reeve says that he fired a couple of times when he fell. But thesheriff says that Reeve only fired once, as his hoss was falling, andthat the other shot that was found fired out of Reeve's gun was firedinto the heart of Armstrong. Oh, they ain't any doubt about it. AllReeve has got is a cock-and-bull yarn that would make a fool laugh!"

  Although Bull had been many times assured by his uncle and his cousinsthat he was a fool of the first magnitude, he was in no mood forlaughter. Somewhere in the tale there was something wrong, for hismind refused to conjure up the picture of Reeve pulling his gun andshooting across the table into the breast of a helpless, unwarned man.That would not be the method of a man who could stand up to UncleBill. That would not be the method of the man who had sat up on hisbunk and looked so calmly into the face of the sheriff.

  Bull stood up and dragged his hat firmly over his eyes. "I'd kind oflike to see the place where that shooting was done," he declared.

  "You got lots of time before night," said the proprietor. "Ain'tmore'n a mile and a half out the north trail. Take that path right outthere, and you can ride out inside of five minutes."

  There was no horse for Bull Hunter to ride. But, having thanked hishost, he stepped out into the cooler sunshine of the late afternoon.

  The trail led through scattering groves of cottonwood most of the way,for it was bottom land, partially flooded in the winter season ofrain, and, even in the driest and hottest part of the summer, marshyin places. He followed the twisting little trail through spots ofshadow and stretches of open sky until he reached the shack which wasobviously that of the dead Armstrong.

  The moment he entered the little cabin he received proof positive.

  The furniture had not apparently been disturbed since the shooting.The table still leaned crazily, as though it had not recovered from aviolent shock on one side. One chair was overturned. A box had beensmashed to splinters, probably by having someone put a footthrough it.

  Bull examined the deal table. Across the center of it there was a darkstain, and on the farther side, two hands were printed distinctly intothe wood, in the same dull color. The whole scene rose revoltinglydistinct in the mind of Bull.

  Here sat Dan Armstrong playing his cheerful game, laughing andjesting, because forsooth he was the winner. And there, on theopposite side of the table, sat Pete Reeve, the guest in the house ofhis host, growing darker and darker as the money was transferred fromhis pocket to the pocket of the jovial Armstrong. Then, a suddentaking of offense at some harmless jest, the cold flash of steel asReeve leaned and jumped to his feet, and then the explosion of therevolver, with Armstrong settling slowly, limply forward on the table.There he lay with a stream pouring across the table from the deathwound, his helpless arms outstretched on the wood.

  Then Reeve, panic-stricken, perhaps with a sudden stirring of remorse,started for the door, struck the box on his way, smashing it to bits,and as soon as he got outside, leaped for his horse. Luckilyretribution had overtaken the murderer in the very moment of escape.Bull Hunter sighed. Never had the strength of the arm of the law beenso vividly brought home to him as by this incident. Suppose that hehad fulfilled his purpose and killed Reeve? Would not the law havereached for him in the same fashion and taken and crushed him?

  He shuddered, and looking up from his broodings, he glanced throughthe opposite window and saw that the woods were growing dark in thatdirection. Night was approaching, and, with the feeling of night,there was a ghostly sense of death, as though the spirit of the deadman were returning to his old home. On the other side of the house,however, the woods showed brighter. This was the east window--the eastwindow through which Reeve declared that the shot had been fired.

  Bull shook his head. He stepped out of the cabin and looked about. Itwas a prosperous little stretch of meadow, cleared into thecottonwoods and reclaiming part of the marshland--all very rich soil,as one could see at a glance. There was a field which had beenrecently upturned by the plow, perhaps the work of yesterday. Thefurrows were still black, still not dried out by the sun. Today wouldhave been the time for harrowing, but that work was indefinitelypostponed by the grim visitor. No doubt this Armstrong was anindustrious man. The sense of a wasted life was brought home to Bull;a bullet had ended it all!

  Absent-mindedly he passed around the side of the house and started forthe east window through which Reeve had said that the bullet wasfired, but he shook his head at once.

  On the east side the house leaned against a mass of white stone. Itrose high, rough, ragged. Certainly a man stalking a house to fire ashot would never come up to it from this side! His own words wereconvicting Reeve of the murder!

  Still he continued to clamber over the stones until he stood by thewindow. To be sure, if a man stood there, he could easily have firedinto the room and into the breast of a man sitting on the far side ofthe table. Armstrong was found there. Bull looked down to his feet asa thoughtful man will do, and there, very clearly marked against thewhite of the stone, he saw a dark streak--two of them, side by side.

  He bent and looked at them. Then he rubbed the places with hisfingertips and examined the skin. A stain had come away from the rock.It was as if the rocks had been rubbed with lead or a soft iron. Andthen, strangely, into the mind of Bull came the memory of what thehotel man had said of the sheriff's iron-shod heels.

  The sheriff had gone for many a year hating Armstrong. The truthrushed over the brain of the big man. What a chance for a crafty mind!To kill his enemy and place the blame on the shoulders of one alreadyknown to be a man-killer! Bull Hunter leaped from the rocks andstarted back for the town with long, ground-devouring strides.